


Little Darlin' - Can't Keep It Inside

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [67]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Gen, John used to be in a band, Parentlock, Song Lyrics, tantrums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:51:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk in the park turns into a parental trial, when John has to provide emergency medical aid and the children get distressed and have screaming, howling tantrums. Sherlock ends up with cake in his eye. And in his hair. And with a broken heart because a not-yet-three-year-old declares that she hates him. But it ends with a song, so that's all right.</p><p>Parenting. Chasing serial killers is less work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Darlin' - Can't Keep It Inside

**Author's Note:**

> I've split off the LIttle Darlin' fics about John and Sherlock coping with parenthood of toddlers into being standalone fics. This one was inspired by the idea of the otherwise rather beatific Violet having an absolute screaming tantrum combined with the new song from the August: Osage Country soundtrack of [Benedict singing the sweet little song he wrote](http://youtu.be/pWMhe6fvASs). Singing Sherlock headcanon now locked and loaded!

Sherlock writes music, yes, but not lyrics. That’s generally understood. Lyrics are so often about sentiment, and while he can sing the words that John writes, he stumbles when he tries to express himself that way. All the sentiment. It’s not that he doesn’t feel it. It’s just that when he tries to say it, he hates it. He hates that it never sounds right. It never captures the truth of it, the depth of it, the entirety of it.

But he did once find words for Violet’s lullaby, when she was very small. He found simple words to state simply and clearly, alongside John’s words, what he wished for his Violet, his John’s little girl.

He found words another time, too, for his girl and his son as well. It’s like a secret between them and him. John heard it, but he didn’t let on. He could see it was something just for Sherlock and his children.

And it all started with a food fight.

Well, no. It started with an emergency, and a tantrum, and a food fight and a tearful apology.

It was a sunny day in May, perfect for a walk in the park with the kids, aged two and half and eighteen months, of whom they had charge for the day.

Sherlock was initially torn.

Walks in the park = boring.

Time with the children = fascinating.

Walks in the park with the children = opportunity to observe the children in a new environment = fascinating.

Ah, but…

Two men walking in the park with children = unwanted female attention = irritation = boring.

Two men walking in the park with children = uninvited commentary on the relationship between the men = John’s entertaining sigh of exasperation but disinterest in correcting people any more = amusing and also endearing.

Two men walking in the park with children = interference from some women who deem men incompetent carers and the provision of unnecessary and occasionally offensive advice = tedious = rude responses = outraged replies = further rude observations = amusing = John being annoyed = not amusing.

But Violet looked excited at the prospect, and her excitement transmitted itself osmotically to Ford, who was bouncing in his little chair and waving his hands in the air going “Par’! Par’! Par!” until Sherlock fixed him with a look and said ‘Park’, and then Ford was bouncing and Violet was bouncing and they were both going “PARK! PARK! PARK!” and thus the final equation was:

Children + Park = Happy Children

And that was that.

They had a pram in which both children could sit but as soon as they reached the edge of Regent’s Park, both kids were out and in their dad’s arms, stretching out arms to point and grab, turning their faces into the wind (or into the shelter of broad shoulders) and laughing at pigeons and ducks, bees and butterflies, and the little ones could ask ‘what’s that?’ and ‘who’s that?’ and ‘why, but why, but why?” as much as they liked and get a relatively sensible answer each time. (Well, except when John told Sherlock the kids weren’t ready yet to have ‘he’s a prostitute, Violet, looking for a client; he needs one today so he can get another hit of heroin’ explained to them, at least wait till they’re in primary school, hmm? – which, on reflection, Sherlock thought a not unreasonable request.)

There were indeed indulgent smiles of the ‘gay couple out with their kids, how cute’ variety, but John just exchanged a twinkling grin with Sherlock over those and laughed when Violet started singing ‘I’ve got two DAAAAAD-dies’ to a passing  pair of dachshunds, and then Ford joined in to the point where any parent who was not the near embarrassment-proof Sherlock or John would have hurried home.

The emergency occurred when the little family stopped at the café for morning tea. A pot of English Breakfast tea for John, and a simple shortbread biscuit. Coffee for Sherlock, and a currant bun, apparently for the purposes of disassembly so Ford could count the currants. Sherlock had divided up a banana and a peach for the children, and then given in to Ford’s round-eyed observation of the cakes on display, bringing back two heavily iced cupcakes. John rolled his eyes indulgently, and laughed because he would have done exactly the same.

Then a woman started having a heart attack, and Doctor Watson was required to swing into action.

Violet watched her Daddy go and talk to the lady who fell down with urgency and seriousness and kindness, and she knew something wasn’t right. She had no idea what the wrongness was, but it upset her. She’d been having a happy morning with her daddies and Sherry, and now people were shouty and sad and frightened and she didn’t understand it and she didn’t like it one little bit, and if Daddy came back things would go back to being happy. That she knew.

Ford watched Violet become tense and fractious, and those responses, like the earlier excitement, were transmitted by osmosis somehow. He began to grizzle, unhappy with the altered atmosphere. He didn’t know what the words were, but Ford did not like the tension in the air, or all the people gathered around the fallen-down lady or the panicky people making a phone call behind the counter.

“I want Daddy,” grumbled Violet,

“Your Daddy is busy,” Sherlock replied, untouched by the kerfuffle, “Have some banana.”

“I don’t want banana. I want Daddy.”

“John is helping a woman with cardiac failure, brought about by drink and stress over her husband’s affair with their son’s music teacher. Try some peach instead.”

“Don’t want peach. I hate peach.”

“You don’t hate peaches, Violet. You like them. You very specifically told me to pack them for the park. Why are you crying, Ford?”

Ford’s little face had folded into creases of worry and he had started to sob. He jabbed a little fist at the crying thirteen year old boy and his crying ten year old sister huddled by the fallen-down woman by way of some kind of explanation.

“They’re just upset because their mother is ill. Hush now, Ford. Have some banana.”

Ford wailed.

Violet wailed. “Daddy!”

“Your daddy,” said Sherlock sternly, “Is occupied in attending a medical emergency right now, Violet. Be a good girl and sit down and _eat your peach_.”

Violet took a fistful of her peach, squished it until it oozed out from her little fist and threw the pulp at Sherlock. It landed in a wet splat on his shirt.

“Violet…”

“I HATE PEACHES.”

Ford wailed more loudly and bunched his fists into his dark curls, tugging at them, and howled.

“Violet Morstan Watson,” began Sherlock, voice terse and clipped in a tone he had never before used with either of the children, and it made Ford howl even more loudly and heartbrokenly, “If you…”

“AND I HATE YOU!”

Violet picked up two fistfuls of cupcake and pushed them right into Sherlock’s face. Into his eyebrow and hair and nose, leaving him smeared in cake and icing and his eye watering painfully at the abuse.

Sherlock sat there, hair and face a mess, eyes streaming and wide open with shock, and stared at Violet.

And Violet stood on her chair, staring wide-eyed at Sherlock, at the mess, at the stricken look in his red and watering eyes, and she held her breath.

And Ford stared at them both, fascinated, distracted from his distress at all the distress around them by his icing-laced father’s shock. By the round O of his mouth, and the round and red and wet Os of his eyes.

Then Ford’s face crumpled up once more and he started crying again.

And Violet’s face crumpled up and she started crying, great wracking sobs.

And icing-encrusted Sherlock who felt like his heart was burning to cinders, patted his son’s head with one hand, and reached out the other towards Violet and kind of patted the air around her, a bit scared to touch her in case she told him she hated him again.

“Violet, hush, there, there. You don’t have to eat the peach. Or the cake. Or the banana. Everything’s all right. See? Your daddy helped the woman and an ambulance is coming and she’ll be fine. She’ll live because your daddy is an amazing person and an excellent doctor. Stop crying. Stop crying, please. Violet, stop crying. I know that you hate me, but please stop crying.”

At which Violet wailed even more loudly and horribly and said: “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She flung herself into his arms and sobbed violently against his shoulder. He was left patting her back and kissing her hair while also trying to comfort Ford.

“There, now, hush,” he said to Violet, still in a state of shock himself.

“I don’t hate you,” Violet mumbled into his chest, then she sat up and patted his face, all around his still watering eye, “Poor Sherlock.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock in a stunned and fairly heartfelt manner, “Poor Sherlock.”

“I hurt your eye. I’m sorry.”

“My eye is fine.”

“I made you cry.”

Well, she’d made his eye water, and made him feel like crying, but it wasn’t a distinction he felt prepared to make at that juncture. He just blinked at her and she kissed his eyebrow, a bit too vigorously, and it didn’t make his eye feel less abused, but it made his heart feel better.

“I’m all right,” Sherlock said, more calmly, “And so are you, and so is John.”

Violet kissed his cake-smeared face again. “Sorry Sherlock,” she whispered, “I love you. I love you, really. I don’t hate you. Don’t be sad.”

Somehow, Sherlock managed to get Ford out of his high chair and cuddle the boy in one arm while he wrapped his other around Violet and cuddled her too. “I love you too,” he said to her, kissing her worried face, “Let’s go sit somewhere quiet. Ford’s upset.”

Violet squatted on Sherlock’s lap so she could look at Ford’s distressed little face. She kissed it. “There, there, Sherry,” she told him, “It’s all right.”

The drama by the door with the collapsed woman was rapidly giving way to the drama of the hysterical children and that tall man who appeared to be having such a difficult time with them. Sherlock hugged the children close, scowled at everyone staring, then rose and pushed his way out towards the back of the café, where a few low, upholstered stools and a play area were set up. Most of the mums-and-tots using it had cleared out, and the last one remaining took one look at the man with cake in his hair and two distraught children, gave him a sympathetic smile, and scooped up her own infant to leave the little area clear.

Sherlock dropped onto the floor, his back against one of the plush stools, and gathered the children close. Ford snuggled into his lap and Violet curled up her legs and squished into his side, with his arm around her. She looked up at him, frowning, then started to giggle. She pointed at his bedraggled curls, some of which were pasted to his forehead with the mortal remains of two cupcakes.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, but since the eyebrow in question was also a cupcake crime scene, that only made her giggle harder. Then she stood up, fetched a little hanky out of her skirt and dabbed at his face with it. He took the cloth from her fingers before he lost the sight in that eye completely.

“I’m all right,” he told her gently, “Are you?”

“I got scared.” Violet frowned. “I don’t know why.” SHe looked like she might cry again.

“It’s upsetting when everyone around is upset.”

Violet nodded. In his lap, Ford nodded too.

“But if you can stay calm, like your daddy did, you can help people and not hurt people by accident.”

Violet considered this. Then she patted his face again. “I love peaches,” she admitted, “I love  you. I’m sorry I hurt you.” She meant his eye, really, but Sherlock knew that she meant the other thing too.

“Everything is fine,” he told her, and kissed her cheek. He bent down to kiss Ford’s hair. “Isn’t it Ford?”

Ford stood up in Sherlock’s lap and kissed his face. Then he licked up a bit of icing. “Yummy,” he declared, and giggled.

Sherlock grinned and kissed Ford’s nose. “Yes,” he agreed.

With a sigh, Violet wriggled down to share Sherlock’s lap with Ford.  She hummed a little bit, though Sherlock didn’t recognise the tune. She looked up at him.

“Singing makes daddy happy,” she said.

“It does,” agreed Sherlock.

“And it makes you happy,” she continued, “And it makes me happy, and Sherry.” And then she just stared at him, hopefully, expectantly.

Sherlock kissed the top of her head, the top of Ford’s and then, using a little of the melody he’d just heard her humming, he made up words and sang them.

_Well, I’ve never been a man of many words_  
 _And there’s nothing I could say that you haven’t heard_  
 _But I’ll sing you love songs till the day I die_  
 _The way I’m feeling  
_ _I can’t keep it inside_

Violet smiled and cuddled in close to him and Ford both, and Sherlock put his arms around his children so that they felt safe in his lap.

_I’ll sing a sweet serenade whenever you’re feeling sad_  
 _And a lullaby each night before you go to bed_  
 _I’ll sing to you for the rest of your life_  
 _The way I’m feeling_  
 _I can’t keep it inside  
_ _No I can’t keep it inside_

When he finished, Violet said a muffled “Again!”, so he sang it again, and over and over.

John had seen the ambulance off, given his details to the paramedics, come in to the abandoned table covered in the wreckage of fruit and cake, and the empty pram. He’d heard the tantrums but he’d had to leave Sherlock to deal with it while he tried (and succeeded) to save Mrs Blackburn’s life. He hoped the signs here didn’t point to everyone having been evicted for uncivilised behaviour.

He was directed by a kindly woman with a small child to the back of the café. A space that half the remaining café was watching, keeping their distance, but listening - to the tall, messy man sing to his two sleepy children nestled in his arms.

John listened too, for a while. Until Sherlock looked up into his eyes and gave a weary smile.

“Next time,” said Sherlock, quite clearly across the café, “ _You_ give them cake and _I’ll_ perform CPR.”

But he was grinning, so John didn’t think he really meant it.

 


End file.
